The Academy by Bentley Little

had a car yet . . . or speakers, for that matter—and he proceeded to sand a piece of maple that yesterday he’d crosscut to length. But his mind was not on the project, and several moments later, after Zivney’s friends had returned from the office and Rick had accidentally on purpose bumped into him, causing the handheld sander to veer off the board and onto the table, he stopped. He liked woodworking—and he was good at it—but he couldn’t put up with this for an entire semester. Mitchell and Rick were starting to work on their own projects, and Ed went up to Mr. Ruiz and asked the teacher if he could have a hall pass to go to the office.
     
     
    “What’s the matter?” the instructor asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
     
     
    He didn’t want to say the real reason, but he didn’t really have a choice, so he lowered his voice. “I think I’m going to transfer to another class.”
     
     
    He’d expected the teacher to try to talk him out of it. But Mr. Ruiz seemed to instinctively understand Ed’s plight. The instructor nodded, gave him a reassuring smile. “We’re going to miss you,” he said, writing out a hall pass.
     
     
    “It’s not—,” Ed began.
     
     
    “I know,” the teacher said.
     
     
    Ed walked across campus feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off him. He passed Cheryl in the hallway between the science and social studies buildings. The student body president did not acknowledge him, but he grinned at her and said, “Hey, Cher! How’s it going?”
     
     
    “Drop dead,” she muttered as she walked past.
     
     
    “I retract my invitation to the homecoming dance, then. You’re out.”
     
     
    “In your dreams, loser.”
     
     
    He laughed.
     
     
    There were fewer students in the quad than there should have been. Quite a few seniors didn’t have a seventh period, and in previous years a lot of them had hung around Senior Corner, waiting for their friends to get out of school and hassling any underclassmen who happened to pass by. Today, however, the quad was deserted save for himself and a girl he didn’t know who was heading from the Little Theater toward the restrooms.
     
     
    Maybe the administration had made a new rule that students couldn’t loiter on campus after their classes ended. It would be a stupid rule—but he could definitely see it happening.
     
     
    A lot of things were different this semester.
     
     
    Almost none of them good.
     
     
    Ed reached the office and pulled open the tinted door, walking inside. Instantly, the buoyant lightness he had felt after leaving woodshop vanished. He stood there for a moment, acclimatizing. There was something creepy about the office. He’d noticed that the other day. The lights seemed too low, for one thing, and there were shadows in the corners that shouldn’t have been there in the daytime. But there was something else as well, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he walked forward slowly, almost cautiously. He handed his hall pass to the secretary at the front desk. “I’m here to see my counselor.” He found when he spoke that his voice was quiet, subdued.
     
     
    “Who is your counselor?”
     
     
    “I don’t know. I’m a senior, so I guess it’s Mr. Hill.”
     
     
    “Mr. Hill is no longer at the school,” the secretary informed him, and the way she said it made his arms break out in gooseflesh. “Your new counselor is Ms. Tremayne.” The secretary pointed down a short hallway. “Room B.”
     
     
    A TA walked by silently, carrying a stack of interoffice envelopes, looking blank and dull, almost tranquilized.
     
     
    Zombified.
     
     
    That was even more accurate, and he shivered as he saw another TA pass by, a vacant expression on her face.
     
     
    The secretary was staring at him— suspiciously? —and he quickly thanked her and walked around the front desk, through the open area behind it and toward room B. Short as it was, he still didn’t like the hallway. He didn’t like the entire office. The counselor, though,